


I Want Your Hot Love and Emotion

by latinaeinstein (oneforyourfire)



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Arranged Marriage, Cliche, M/M, rich kid angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-07
Updated: 2019-01-07
Packaged: 2019-10-06 03:49:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17338040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oneforyourfire/pseuds/latinaeinstein
Summary: And it works, he realizes. Perfectly. It makes sense a cruel, twisted, gross and poetic and cliched sort of way





	I Want Your Hot Love and Emotion

**Author's Note:**

> 2014 fic, from an exchange but idr which one

It’s Monday morning, 7:45 AM, and Tao’s work week is just starting. But there’s the beginnings of a stress headache pulsing just between his eyes. And Tao massages long, thin fingers over his temples, breathing slow and deep. In through his nose. Out through his mouth. He clenches his eyes shut as he counts to 10. Wills it away with a breathed sigh.

The soft, pink sunlight that manages to filter through his blinds is harsh, grating. The groan of activity—muffled phones, birds, the wind beyond the tinted glass of his office windows—is almost deafening.

He can't. He can't. He can't.

Tao gropes blindly for his call button, buzzes his secretary in a pained hiss. “Sehun, coffee and Tylenol. _Now_."

Tao knows to expect the worse, has been conditioned for it after three months. But he hopes. Oh, he hopes as he presses his fingers even harder, flinches past the sudden flare of annoyance—pain—that accompanies thoughts of Oh Sehun.

Tao's been trying to cope. Tao's been trying to make do. But Sehun is a nuisance. Sehun is a burden. Sehun is the thorn in his side.

And it's another 60 agonizing seconds of rubbing fruitlessly at his temples, falling forward to rest his cheek against cool wood varnish. It's another 60 seconds, a full minute of resenting and aching and needing before Sehun saunters into the room. (Tao can't actually see, doubled over as he is, with his eyes squeezed shut, but Sehun has a tendency towards sauntering, taking his sweet, sweet time)

Tao is still hoping for the best. Needing it.

And it is slightly better as Sehun leans over, makes this surprised sound, fingers fluttering briefly, but with intent near Tao's forehead. "Mr. Huang," he says, softly. Tao blinks up at him. And there's a sympathetic tilt to Sehun's eyelashes, something brief softening his liquid eyes, angling his dark eyebrows. And he's not so bad, then, setting down a coaster, a mug of coffee, and a sleeve of Tylenol capsules on Tao's desk. His forehead crinkles in worry as he bends slightly forward. Tao can smell his aftershave, and that, too, is too much, too harsh this early.

And the softness, the reprieve is gone quickly, replaced with Sehun's default disdain. He rises quickly, bows as he exits the room.

Tao sits up to dryswallow the pills, takes a whiff of burnt coffee, grimaces. (Sehun doesn't drink coffee, doesn't care enough to learn how to make it halfway decent). Tao buzzes him again, rattles off a Starbucks order as he rights his tie, starts up his computer.

 

Tao’s last secretary, Joonmyun, an overeager college intern, had been so much better. Over the top, at times. Almost patronizing. Decidedly ingratiating. But he'd been more than competent, sweet. Joonmyun had always anticipated Tao's needs, gone above and beyond to note Tao's idiosyncrasies, fielding anxiety-inducing calls, picking up his drycleaning, typing up emails to Tao's parents.

But pay cuts, Joonmyun's graduation and subsequent real job search, and Tao's father's insistence on making nice with their suppliers (Sehun's family owns a paper supply company) had effectively ended it. Ended them. Joonmyun was—is— the closest thing Tao has ever come to a fully functional relationship. Romantic or otherwise. Tao still emails him sometimes (Joonmyun's a junior salesman, loves his job), but it's not quite the same. Not quite enough.

And Oh Sehun—of the long body, bored eyes, shitty coffee, poorly masked insolence—is a poor replacement, a poor consolation prize.

Tao would fire him if he could, but he can’t. Isn’t allowed. (He's asked. Twice)

 

Fifteen minutes later, Sehun knocks twice, apologizes, bows his head quickly as he sets down an espresso and croissant, takes an untouched mug. The croissant is new, and Tao thinks maybe it's Sehun's attempt at comfort. (Joonmyun would have massaged his scalp, maybe canceled his first appointments, scheduled a meeting with his psychiatrist. Joonmyun would have reassured Tao that it happened to all the greats and that Joonmyun really admired Tao for his work ethic, his dedication. So young and already so accomplished. So driven. Joonmyun would have made it better, Tao thinks. But Sehun, Sehun offers a croissant, and Tao offers him a strained smile in response)

Sehun gives him a short bow. Turns on his heel. He pauses at the door to repeat his apology. And—as always—the gleam in his eyes is more challenging than contrite. And Tao sighs as he waves him away.

 

Tao doesn't understand him. Try as he might he still can't find a reason—a satisfactory reason—beyond Sehun being exactly the kind of person—exactly the fucking stereotype.

Because Sehun is just so awful at his job. Doesn’t even really try. Seems to delight in actively failing at his duties, almost.

He's just a chaebol brat, with enough money to last him several lifetimes over. But no direction. No sense of purpose. No sense of duty or pride. No, Oh Sehun's just cushioning his resumé, warming his ass, passing the time. He's just skating past. And it's offensive and frustrating and infuriating because Tao, Tao has always fucking tried. Even when he hated—hates—it. Even when it's killed him. Even when it was the last thing he'd wanted. Tao tried. And Tao's always worked twice as hard to prove himself. Worked his way up to earn this.

Or maybe that's too revisionist. Maybe it's more accurate to say that they beat the fight out of a him long ago, forced him into submission.

And there have been hiccups along the way (his dreams, his personality, at times even his soul protesting in the form of wayward musical aspirations, muted almost break downs, stress headaches and teary pleas to just let him be somebody else). But Tao knows now to just let the insistent pressure of his father’s dreams and accomplishments, his father's sacrifices and efforts press heavy on his shoulders, tug at him like puppet strings. So he can stumble-step down the right path. And he can rest assured, all the while, that it is ultimately for the best.

It’s easier not wanting. Or just accepting your fate. Part of being an adult, Tao's decided, doing things you hate for the greater good. Resignation has done wonders for Tao’s happiness and well-being. Compliance, passivity almost feel like free will on certain days.

But Sehun, Sehun almost serves as a distressing reminder of that sacrifice, that choice that was never really his to make.

Insufferable Oh Sehun, who stages petty protests in the form of dropped calls, chicken scratched memos, frequent tardies, burnt coffee, misplaced receipts, documents, memos.

They are the same age. Subject to roughly the same circumstances. But with different, inverse, opposite reactions. Because Oh Sehun is a brat, a grown man throwing a tantrum. And Tao, Tao feels like a child drowning in his father's suit, crumpling at times under the weight of it.

But in the grand scheme of things, Tao needs a secretary. Sehun needs a place to sit. And his father's company—Tao's company—needs the in.

So Tao plays babysitter, is made to cope.

 

Tao's company sells greeting cards, love letters, stationary, pens. Slightly higher end, their products are popular with choosy, well-off stay-at-home moms, college-aged women, the general populace near romantic holidays.

Tao's not cut out of the job, he knows. Not really. Has to become somebody else, access a different part of himself, shut another one off.

But he's good at it. More than adequate. Tao's lived a life of honed discipline, has been groomed, pruned, molded towards this. And he's never given anyone cause for doubt.

But his father is a pragmatist, masquerading as a romantic, selling cheap, pithy love and a pretty ribboned dreams to the masses. And Tao is a _real_ romantic playing competent and comfortable at the shrewdness, calculation, cold cold discipline of a CEO.

Tao rights the family portrait on his desk with a sigh, rolls his neck, cracks his wrists, gets to work.

 

Mondays are mostly meetings with the managers on the floors beneath him. Rifling through memos, delineating tasks, brainstorming ideas, checking productivity, making sure the company is stable enough to last another week.

Tuesdays are outside days. For schmoozing, prowling for both customers and competition. Meeting with suppliers, market research analysts, if time allows. Getting a general feel for what the people want by leaving his office, leaving his district. But he is always sure to come back by lunch time, eating on his desk and trying not to get sauce on his memos.

By Wednesday, there are usually fires to put out. Branch owners to scold. Stern emails to send. Missing shipments or disgruntled customers. Tao usually calls in a second or third latte order for Sehun as he performs damage control.

On Thursdays, he meets with the board of directors, pitchers, managers once more if needed.

And Fridays are HR, thumbing through expense reports, even more meetings, tiny failsafes to ensure the company lasts the weekend.

Tao spends the other portions of his days stressing, supervising, solving problems, sorting out his duties, steering—he hopes—his company, his father's other child in the right direction.

Monday through Friday, 8AM to 5PM. Lather, rinse, repeat.

There are afterhours work commitments, too. Implicitly, or at the very least tangentially relevant to his company's best interests.

Tao has golfing on Mondays, tennis on Tuesdays, racquetball every second Wednesday. They serve as opportunities to network, charm, win people over.

And that part—laughing, schmoozing, flirting—that part is something that comes natural, feels truer to who he is. But there's still the veneer of professionalism about it, an end goal. And the shame, the discomfort is residual. Tao feels dirty, feels fake.

Tao appreciates the days that are his own. Tao luxuriates in the brief respites that come Thursdays, Fridays, sometimes Saturdays.

Thursdays in the form of wushu practice. Another relegated dream, a desire deferred. Tao appreciates the exertion, likes the ache. It serves a reminder of sorts, the ways in which he can push his body past its limit, molding it into something terrifying and powerful. Completely his own.

And Fridays, Fridays are for exclusive gay bars if he's feeling up to it. Tao gets drunk, grinds up on some warm stranger that slurs about how fucking hot he looks in his suits. Sometimes Tao even takes them home. Fucks or is fucked, loses himself in heated caresses. Tao sooths an ache, scratches an itch.

And Saturdays are a type of absolution, a type of cleanse. He walks to the park, takes pictures of birds and leaves. Sometimes he brings his pet, a sketchpad, a water bottle so he can laze, decompress for hours on end. He usually ends the day by having dinner with Kim Minseok, mentor, CFO, best friend. The elder calmly answering questions, doling advice, fond fond affection.

Sunday, lazy Sundays, are for drama marathons, hourly email checks, his weekly pizza delivery order. One large pepperoni, two orders of kimchi radish, one of pickles. Tao pulls on a hoodie and sweats and runs to the supermarket by his house to buy a single tomato, one salad in a bag, and Lu Han—his guniea pig—sits on his chest, pigging out, too. Recovering, Tao likes to think, appreciating the chance to nuzzle into his owner’s quilted chest and gorge himself on food.

 

❣ ❣ ❣

 

The pattern, delineation of time make it easier. There are unique pockets dedicated to certain tasks, and Tao operates more than well enough for somebody that despises their job.

But interruption comes midweek in the form of a frog-shaped memo affixed to his computer monitor. (It’s scribbled so badly that Tao has to call Sehun in and ask for clarification). Tao’s mother wants to have dinner and catch up. Tonight, 6PM, their usual place.

Tao smiles stiffly, folding the note smaller and smaller and smaller before tossing it in the wastebasket. But it still tickles at his brain, teases at his nerves.

 

Their usual place is high end, Korean, overpriced. It’s one 10-minute taxi ride from his work. Tao doesn’t bother to go home, change his clothes. He undoes his cufflinks, lingers at a Starbucks nearby, warming his hands on a Caramel Macchiato. The steam escaping from the lip of the cup fogs up his phone as he leans over his drink to read the news, tapping his fingers in a restless tattoo on the table.

Tao ties his scarf extra tight around his neck, shoves his hand in his coat pockets before making it outside at 5:45. He sits at their usual booth—private, by the window. It has an overpriced, overhanging view of the Han River, the lights glittering in pretty blues, purples, pinks.

The menu is available in Korean, English, Chinese, Japanese. Tao thumbs through it as he sips on his water, waits.

 

Tao already knows what this is about.

Every month—few weeks if he’s extra busy, argues that the stress of work is too much—Tao buckles under his parent’s insistence and attends a blind date. Matchmaker approved, with the trappings of traditionality, the heavy approval of ancient tradition. They’re heavy with intention, distressing in their purpose.

Tao wears a tailored suit, his lucky tie, his widest, most charming smile. He flirts and tries and succeeds in parts.

And there’s a certain comfort in the theatricality and protocol of it all. A role he is supposed to play. A laundry list of traits he’s supposed to embody. Tall, handsome, successful, well-mannered, charming. He appreciate it, almost. Being aware of the rules, the steps in order to ensure the desired outcome. Marriage. Forever.

And the matchmaker tries her best to cater to his proclivities and tastes. Tao meets attractive, successful, charming people in turn, too. Men and women. Business people, doctors, lawyers, professors.

And Tao tries—tries really fucking hard—but he can’t. He jerks back after two, three dates, cuts off ties. Tao can only indulge so far before he’s pulling back. Blocking Kakao invites. Deleting emails. Sending flowers, cards because he’s not completely heartless. But he’s still not interested in it as avenue for real romance. It’s too clinical. Too pragmatic. Too practical. Tao prefers the messiness of one-night stands, clumsy, passionate, but real. Organic. Chemistry and heat. People that would be eliminated on the basis of their parentage, their social standing, their income, their education but that kiss and touch and claim and take in the most delicious, most sinful way.

But Tao pretends just long enough, and his parents cover the expense. Ask for monthly reports. (Tao always lies).

But Tao isn’t due for another Son, another reminder about how _serious_ this is, for another 2 weeks.

The change of pace, the interruption makes him anxious, has him on edge.

 

He’s already ordered his drink, eaten more than his share of sidedishes—nervously picking at kimchi and seaweed as he shifts in his seat—when his mother arrives.

She is beautiful, looks deceptively young in a sharp, dangerous kind of way. Severe features, cutting eyes, harsh beautiful lines that age has done very little to soften. Terrifying and refined, she takes off her coat before letting him hug her. He does, hard, and she hums, laughs before reaching up to urge him back.

She sits across from him, uses a wet tissue to wash her hands, beckons the waiter over with a slow curl of her fingers.

Her smile is falsely sweet. In a calculated way. Fake beneath the surface. The smile of somebody preparing a lamb for slaughter, he used to call it, in his younger, more resentful days. It’s the same expression she’d given him when she’d “let” him pick his major, apply to his first internship. It’s an expression that always accompanies ultimatums, “lesser of two evils” scenarios, guilt trips, appeals to his parents’ many, many sacrifices.

Unease twists in his gut.

Tao feels like a kid then—again—threatening to collapse under the too heavy weight of other people’s responsibilities. Playing dress up and pretend at adulthood and life. His mother, her posture, her gaze—however inadvertently—serve to shave even more years off his self-reliance, self-confidence. He withers slightly, squirms in his seat.

His mother catches his eyes. Her smiles softens, becomes realer, eyes less guarded. Her fingernails—blood-red—dance over the rim of her glass. Tao clears his throat. “You’re 28,” she starts, slowly.

“Are the wrinkles starting to show?” he jokes, and his mother smiles softens completely then. It crinkles her eyes in a warm, familiar, endearing way. People have always said Tao has her smile.

“With my genes? Please, Tao.”

“But I am getting older,” Tao supplies, relents and she nods minutely, shifts in her seat.

Her expression becomes solemn, hard anew. “Son,” she tries again, tone delicate, diplomatic. “How are things going with your love life? Honestly. I haven’t gotten any real, substantial updates. Since that woman—all those months ago.”

Song Qian.

Qian was the closest he’d ever come to something substantial, arranged date-wise. A would-be almost relationship, five dates stretched over 2 months. A lawyer, former ballernia, Qian had made an impression, made her mark. And they’d kissed thrice, natural, soft as they’d talked about potential futures, weaving a clumsy, piecemeal maybe at a park bench, a cafe, just outside Tao's apartment in late spring. But she had stopped returning his calls, found somebody, Tao was sure, and he was grateful for it’s stuttered, underwhelming death.

His parents, of course, were _not_.

“You don’t have to worry,” Tao insists. And he makes a mental note to double-down his efforts. Talk to Sehun to shuffle his schedule around. Maybe even swap out wushu or Saturday dinner to clear up room in his calendar. Just to allay their fears. Maybe, maybe even chance meeting somebody.

“This is worrying, son,” she sighs. “This is important.”

And marriage is important. It implies a level of commitment. Conformity. It shows that he’s got an eye for the future, that he’s a man that can be trusted. Because he's settled down, found somebody that thought he was a sure enough forever.

Their food—bulgogi popping and sizzling in a pot—arrives, then, and it serves as a welcome distraction, the clink of chopsticks and spoons filling the silence.

“There haven’t been any prospects,” he admits, taking a sip of beer from his glass. “But that doesn’t mean, it doesn’t mean it’s not serious for me.”

His mother shakes her head. “I’ve been talking to—” She pauses, sighs. “We might have found somebody.”

Tao nods slowly, swallows thickly. He plasters on a fake smile. “Somebody besides the arranged...? A suitor.” His parents' involvement has never been this proactive. “Did you invite my suitor tonight?” he jokes, tone falsely light.

She stiffens slightly. “Yes.”

And Tao nearly chokes on his drink. “Tonight?”

“Yes,” she repeats.

The Huangs are noveau riche, built from the ground up, extra extra careful of their image, their social standing. There is calculation in his parents' every movement. And Tao knows, he knows, that it's for the best. Tao knows that it was inevitable. And really, he isn’t sure why he thought procrastination, deliberation, caution would be okay. He knows he’s been pressing his luck.

But Tao hardly has a chance to process that fact, think through the implications, before Sehun—Sehun—is sauntering through the door.

He stands there awkward and without purpose or direction until Tao’s mother rises in greeting. Tao does, too. Stiff and polite and confused.

Sehun sits down, blinking back surprise, swallowing hard, the shadows dancing across the prominent jut of his bobbing Adam’s apple. He’s wearing a suit, a nervous face, then. His expression becomes blank when Tao openly gapes at him.

Sehun is shifting to take off his coat, leaning forward, catching Tao’s eyes, by accident, in the process.

“Oh Sehun,” Tao says simply, numbly. "That’s my suitor. He’s who you’ve—" Tao cuts himself off, exhales slowly. “Mother?”

Cockiness, insolence, maybe even taunting peek through the carefully-schooled features. Sehun rolls his shoulders, so broad they threaten to brush against his mother’s.

“You’re both single,” she starts. “Both single, both in need of a viable marriage prospect, and considering our business partnhership, it’s also—wise.”

And it works, he realizes. Perfectly. It makes sense a cruel, twisted, gross and poetic and cliched sort of way. In a purely pragmatic, objective, business arrangement sort of way, too. Beneficial on paper. Convenient. Easy.

“A contract marriage,” Sehun says softly. “That’s what you’re suggesting. A contract marriage. Between myself and Mr. Huang.”

Tao lets out an involuntary sound, and Sehun’s eyes catch his again. On purpose this time. And Tao is acutely aware of the fact that this isn’t a conversation they should be having right now. In front of Oh Sehun. But he’s still—

“Mother, I don’t know if—”

“You’re allowed to say no,” his mother says, some hesitance bleeding into her tone. He hears a clink, looks up to see her clenching her glass tightly in her hand. “You know that Tao. You’re allowed to think about it. We’re not—It’s just a suggestion. But you know, your father...”

And it’s never been this direct. This loaded. They’ve never been this involved.

And no, Tao knows he doesn’t really have a right to say no. Not like this. When he’s pushing 30 and perpetually single and it looks bad. Not when this is the last puzzle piece. The last last last step towards fulfilling his parents' every wish. Not when almost is not nearly enough.

When Tao looks up again, meets Sehun’s eyes, they’ve changed again. To something harder, but almost challenging, his eyebrow arched in the most frustrating way.

And Tao finds himself rising to that provocation, that goading. Because Sehun doesn’t believe he will, because Sehun doesn’t know him. Because Sehun can’t be right.

And Tao is playing chicken with his life, his future. But he’s never really been one to back down. Take that kind of hit to his pride.

His voice sounds strange to his own ears. “No, really, it’s actually—it’s perfect,” he finds himself saying. “Sehun and I, married. I definitely—I definitely want to, on my end.”

His mother's eyebrows raise up to disappear beneath her black bangs. She was expecting a fight, he thinks. That is his usual style. Impassioned, though ultimately fruitless protest before final subjugation. But Tao just nods meekly, plasters his hesitance behind a soft, self-assured deceptively genuine smile.

Sehun, Sehun is saying that he, too, he also wants. To get married. Yes, its also—he also thinks it’s an ideal match.

And it’s like the dressup games they made Tao play in International School in Tokyo, Seoul, Hong Kong. Tao reaching out to hold his bride's hand. Children posing stiffly for pictures, miming real intimacy, true happiness.

Only now he's 28 and still with nothing to show by the way of free will or independence. And he's still catering to somebody else's needs. He’s still a child. A terrified, helpless child.

True to form, true to analogy, Sehun looks terrified, too. Stiff and wide-eyed, smiling tightly.

His mother, eager to ignore the apparent falseness of it, smiles, too.

"I have been thinking about it for a while. Discussing it, too. And I had really hoped," she says easily, adjusting her coat, tilting her chin up to look up at him as she rises, "I had hoped since you already knew each other, worked with each other, it would be smooth. Easy."

She pulls on her coat, and Sehun rises stiffly to push her chair in.

"Yes," Tao agrees, standing up to see her out. But she shakes her head smoothly, bows out her goodbye. Her bangs fall in her eyes, the light catches on the gleam of her earrings.

“I think you two should,” she motions in Sehun’s direction, and Tao nods slowly. He places his hand on her forearm, sends his regards to his father, as well.

Reality intrudes as he makes his way back towards his table, where Sehun is sitting, staring. Tao's head feels dizzy, his breath short, chest tight, the blood is rushing in his ears. A dull, nauseuating roar.

Sehun doesn’t look much better off. He’s wearing an expression that Tao would almost call bashful on anybody else. There is something telling in its shyness and diffidence as Sehun's lips curl, eyelashes tilt. And Sehun has lost his bravado, his usual frustrating disdain. He looks worried, too. Put out. A small, cruel part of Tao appreciates it. Even as he dismisses it. Because he doesn't want to think about Sehun's feelings right now. Doesn't want to have to worry about him when the pressure on him is so heavy, so suffocating.

"Mr. Huang,” Sehun starts.

“Cut your words,” Tao laughs, falling clumsily across from him, elbows knocking against the wood. Too loud, harsh. “We’re—we’re engaged.”

He presses his fingers to his temple again, massages urgently like he had at the beginning of the week.

“Mr. Huang,” Sehun repeats, softly, concerned. Tao spares a peek, sees that Sehun’s hands are gripping the utensils tightly. His mouth opens and closes several times. Trying and failing at words.

“Cut your words,” Tao hisses. And Sehun’s expression smooths out into a grimace, lips turning downwards in a comical frown. Tao clenches his eyes shut, feels the table edge digging into his belly, the wood squeaking beneath his elbows as falls further forward, with a groan. “Why have I—why did I?”

“Because you’re fucking whipped.”

Tao distracted as he is, still jerks at the curse. Blinks up at him. Sehun—his fiancé, Tao thinks hysterically—is scowling now. Lip jutted out like a child.

"Do you want to get out of here?" Tao asks.

Sehun nods.

“What do you eat on the day of your engagement?” he asks, and Sehun shrugs, stares up at Tao for a beat. And Sehun’s lips round as he mouths engagement in almost wonder.

Tao regards him carefully, traces along his face as he waits for a response. He tries to be objective about it, clinical almost, like he is on blind dates. His eyes dance over every sharp, distinct feature. Sehun is attractive, Tao decides. Dark eyes, strong brow, sharp jawline, sleepy eyes, a small pout of a mouth. Hot, too. Long and lean, all lopsided smirks and loose hair in his eyes.

“If it’s my last meal,” Sehun says finally. “I’d want to go out like a king.” Then when Tao motions for him to elaborate. “Samgyeopsal."

Tao pays the bill, and they step out into the crisp fall air.

Tao walks slightly ahead, Sehun slightly behind, and they both shove their hands in their pockets, bumping shoulders, steps still in sync.

They find a Korean barbecue after a couple of minutes of silent searching.

Tao’s already eaten, but picks at the side dishes, orders two bottles of soju. He elects to flip the meat instead, and Sehun hums around his food. His long, thin fingers curl around handfuls of lettuce. There’s already sesame oil on the corner of his lip by the time he’s polished off his second helping.

“Did you—did you know? Before—?” Tao asks

Sehun sighs. Long and drawnout. “My mother, she—she said, she said that they’d found somebody. Said to come here, but I didn’t know. I wouldn’t have..."

“Wanted this, either,” Tao finishes. “Wanted this at all.”

And Sehun’s eyebrows tilt as he slurps more food into his mouth.

And the taste of kimchi is sharp on Tao’s tongue, but Sehun’s eyes are sharper. Guarded, but still biting. Suddenly. “I’m hardly something people don’t want,” he says.

Tao blinks. “Do you want—more pork belly? More banchan?”

“You don’t have to wine and dine me,” Sehun informs him with a raised eyebrow. He steeples his hands above his plate. Tao regrets dropping formalities. “I’m a done deal, yeobo.”

“But do you even—like—?”

“Men,” Sehun laughs. “Does it even matter?”

“I think it does,” Tao says, and Sehun makes this sound. It’s halfway between a scoff and a sigh. His tongue slithers out to lick at the corner of his mout. "To be—I don't know—for there to be the potential."

“I do” Tao supplies after a beat. Too long, he knows. “Men and women. Men more.”

“Me, too. But it’s still not—I mean, I hadn’t thought...”

“Did you suspect?” Tao asks even later. After he’s relented, ordered some food to give himself something to do as Sehun eats. “I mean that your hand was gonna be...forced?”

Sehun nods solemnly. “Yeah, I mean you're a work horse or a trophy to show off in front of the others. You're not a person. Not in any sort of substantial way."

Tao locks away that conversation for another day. Delineates as he’s been taught to do. He scoops a spoonful of too-hot rice into his mouth, and Sehun pops open the cap for their second bottle.

“I wanted to dance, you know” Sehun confesses. After the third shot, downed with a grimace, the sound of glass meeting varnished wood resounding.

Tao looks up at him, and Sehun shrugs. Tao matches his shot. “I figured, if we’re—if we’re married, and there are things you want to know about me. I wanted to dance. I was good at it, too. There was this performing arts school, they fucking scouted me. I made the auditions. Out of all those other—I earned it, you know. I was fifteen, and this was something that was purely mine."

Sehun hiccups, wipes at his mouth.

"I don't even know why they indulged it, why they entertained the idea, if they were just going to—I don't know why they let me believe, you know. That made it worse. To let me believe that maybe I'd get this one thing. This one thing that was completely mine. But they just—said that it wasn’t a smart choice. Passion burns out, you know. There's no guarantee in it. Name, prestige, that lasts. They couldn't have me—It's whimsical. And everything I do has to count for something. But my dreams, my own happiness…" Sehun's breath catches on a hiccup as he sighs out wearily.

Tao grimaces, breathes out an "I'm sorry." He reaches forward almost mindlessly, brushes his thumb against Sehun's wrist. Sehun shifts away from him.

“What dreams did you have before you let them bleed you dry?" Sehun breathes, looking up at him from beneath his eyelashes, his voice tight, almost cruel. "The ever filial son, too loyal and soft to ever dream of rebelling. What did you want before they bled the life out of you?"

“Fuck you.”

Sehun laughs bitterly, foregoes the cup to drink straight from the bottle.

The green glass is shiny against his puffy lips. The color and Sehun’s beauty then temporarily dazzle Tao’s eyes. Tao blinks it quickly away.

“That’s the point, right? You can’t—we can’t have kids, but we’re supposed to at least have the trappings or marriage. You’re supposed to kiss me, hold my hand, fuck me, and I’m supposed to pretend to like it. For the rest of our natural lives. I have to fucking pretend.”

Tao leans forward to take another long drag. Tao reaches out to take his hand again, and Sehun jerks back.

Sehun glares up at him, pops his lips as he speaks. “Fuck me.”

“Stop.”

Sehun lets the bottle drop drop. The sound is hollow as it crashes. And Tao doesn’t know what to do. He settles for a topic of a distraction.

Tao wanted to sing. He never strayed far enough to explore it much. Was never scouted, chosen, affirmed. Tao never really gave himself to the chance to want it too much, but he murmurs about it to Sehun, nonetheless.

Sehun blinks up at him slowly, hesitates, speaks. "Sing for me." And it wavers slightly, sounds like maybe Sehun wanted it to be a firm sentence, but it lilts up at the end like a question.

Tao shakes his head. "I'm not very good," he decides. "It wasn't—it wasn't like you. It wasn’t ever a real possibility.”

"It meant something to you, and I'm—I'm your fiancé."

Tao looks down at his knees, and Sehun reaches out to grip one kneecap. He squeezes hard. Tao brushes his fingers away after a beat.

“I just, they took away all these things, and I thought—I hoped.”

“They're not gonna let us not get married now, Tao. You made your loaded choice.”

“That’s not the point,” Tao insists. And it’s fucking _important_. His indignation must be understood.

“What is it, then?”

“I wanted an choice. In at least this. I didn’t—you know I’m not a fucking toddler. They don’t need to press me with ‘You can brush your teeth now or you can brush them later, but you have to brush them.’ It’s so offensive. I’m not—And I’ve been groomed for this—” he motions widely, “since birth, but I thought—I hoped—that at least when it came to forever, I’d be allowed to choose.”

“But why would you? What makes you—this—so special?”

“I’ve earned it,” he insists. “I—I’ve been so good my entire fucking life”

“You think I don’t deserve you?” Sehun cuts in, tone falsely light, teasing. He’s looking up at him from beneath his dark eyelashes, tilting his chin up in diffidence.

“It’s not that, _fuck_ , Sehun.”

“That’s not the way it works, you know. These aren’t our lives to live. We’re an extension of them.”

“They should be.”

“You’re an idealist.”

Sehun stretches, and his arms are so long that his wrists peek out of his sleeves. He should have his clothes tailored. Can fucking afford it. Tao’s eyes trace over the delicate jut of his wristbone, dance over the veins in his hands, linger on his ring finger.

“Why don’t you have somebody?”

“Why don’t you?”

“No, I mean you’re—handsome and…”

Sehun acknowledges the compliment with a shy, jerky, drunken dip of his head.

“Why don’t you?” he repeats, but softer.

Tao shakes his head. “I don’t want to be ungrateful,” he breathes. “For wanting to lead my own life. I owe them my life.”

“And they never fail to cash that benefit in.”

Sehun turns away, sighs heavily. His solemnity is interrupted by an undignified hiccup. He wipes too-hard at his mouth as he blinks down at his hands, turns them over in his lap. Tao watches him watch himself.

And Sehun’s only a couple of months younger, but Tao feels responsible for him, nonetheless. Is, in a way. It really isn’t fair.

"You finally decided to care about your dream," Sehun notes dryly, pressing one fist against his forehead. "But it doesn't matter whether you protest at 15 or 28. You're not gonna get your way. So what do you want to do, Tao? What are you supposed to do?”

Tao is reminded of Doctor Faustus, the good and bad angels on a person’s shoulders. Only it's Sehun with his creased eyebrows, hooded eyes, lips pink and slick from too many glasses. And it's less sin, more sadness.

"Fuck them. Fuck this. Fuck it," Sehun intones harshly. "Fucking _fuck_."

 

Tao has to support his gangly, too-broad body when they stumble out of restaurant later that night, wipe back Sehun’s sweaty brow. Sehun leans heavily on Tao—much too heavily considering his lean frame—blinking up at him with the slowness of intoxication. And Tao guides him up to his apartment before falling back into the cab, drunk, too.

Tao stumbles into his own apartment. He feels dirty, sullied, wrong, disgust and discord piercing through the haze of alcohol. His worlds are colliding in an uncomfortable, jarring kind of way, and he spends an hour in the shower, scrubbing at his skin, cursing his fate as he presses his face against mint green shower tiles.

 

Hungover on Friday, Tao briefly contemplates calling in sick, indulging the headache pounding behind his eyeballs, but he shuffles to work instead. Two Tylenol capsules, an Americano, a croissant are already waiting on his desk. And Tao presses a tired smile to his own shoulder as he starts up his computer.

 

That next week, Sehun is still stiff, removed, mediocre but there’s an extra tenderness, an extra fondness in his smile, Tao notes, imagines, wants.

(Tao calls him into his office to complain about another dropped called, and Sehun grins sticky-sweet. “Well, you should really get used to it all,” Sehun says, easy and unaffected and cocky that Thursday when Tao buzzes him over to complain, “My burnt coffee, my awful chicken scratch. We’re for life now.” And Tao bites the retort stinging on his tongue, the sudden spike of resentment, dread. He smiles back. Sickenly-sweet, too. Making nice, he reasons. Making the best.)

 

❣ ❣ ❣

 

It’s nearing Winter, their busiest time production-wise. And Tao knows he should be consulting, discussing plans to ordering more for the Christmas season, capitalizing on the couple holiday. But instead, it’s Sehun that Tao wants to discuss that Sunday, over dinner.

Minseok is his CFO. 2 years older, a good 8 cms shorter, he commands respect, holds himself with poise, listens to Tao's complaints and woes. Tao's known him since he was a fresh-faced and reluctant gofer, Minseok a junior accountant. He's Tao's oldest friend.

“I don’t—I don’t think I’m allowed to take it back.”

“Probably not,” Minseok observes, spearing a piece of lettuce with his fork. “But it’s hardly—I mean, he’s hardly the _worst_ that you could do.”

“That’s not exactly a ringing endorsement,” Tao sighs, and Minseok laughs. High-pitched and lilting. It makes him look young, innocent, soft.

“I think you guys just maybe need to give it time, you know. Get a feel for each other. Hang out. Figure out how you’re going to make this whole marriage thing work out.”

“I don’t want to,” Tao grumbles, and Minseok reaches out to pat his head in patronizing affection. Tao arches into the touch on instinct, and Minseok thumbs fondly at his eyebrow. Tao's eyelashes flutter shut, of their own volition.

“If it’s any consolation, he probably doesn’t either. But that’s what big boys do, Tao. They make the best of less than ideal circumstance. Even— _especially_ —if they don’t want to.”

“No, but I think he does," Tao argues, eyes opening. Minseok's hand retreats. "You should have seen his eyes, hyung.”

Minseok’s lips are glossy, white from salad dressing, and he quirks them to the side as he thinks. “Are you sure that’s not projection, Tao? Justification after the fact?”

“No, I swear.”

Minseok hums dismissively, and Tao prickles, but doesn’t argue his case further.

“It’s a good strategy, regardless,” Minseok argues, using his stern, commanding, but reasonable “meeting” voice. “Getting to know your life partner. Learning the specifics of their personality, learning how to mesh. It is for forever, after all. It’s always better to know what you’re getting into, you know. I’m just saying, Tao.”

But he’s not just saying, he’s _advising_. And Minseok is always so pragmatic, so practical. Even when Tao is just looking to complain, not fix.

“Even if I’m not allowed to call anything a deal breaker?” he asks, and Minseok laughs again, chokes on his lemonade. His wheeze is high-pitched as he pounds a fist against his own chest.

 

Tao weighs Minseok’s advice. Takes it to heart.

 

He buzzes Sehun into his office that Monday, his secretary looking slightly frazzled, haggard, uncomfortable. He shifts in his ill-fitting suit, and Tao notes the bruises under his tired eyes. “Rough weekend?” he asks, lightly, and Sehun straightens, shakes his head.

“I—with my parents,” he says. Leaves it at that.

“I’ll buy you lunch,” Tao offers. Sehun’s eyebrows raise in surprise, but he consents easily enough.

“Let me get my coat.”

Tao takes him to a cafe, and Sehun orders a hot cocoa, a sandwich. He melts forward into the halo of steam, inhaling deeply.

“I wanted to,” Tao starts, nosing at the container of his own cup, meeting Sehun’s eyes in the muted, mood lighting. It bathes the room in soft golden hues, makes Sehun’s eyes look extra round and extra bright, skin glowing.

“Talk about our engagement,” Sehun finishes.

“Yes and our future marriage and just— _ah_ —the fact that we’re together now.”

“Hardly,” Sehun murmurs.

“But I think we should be. I mean, I know it’s—we’re not—real, but I still think it makes sense to operate like we are. You know, spend time together. Get to know each other. Um, try to figure out how we fit together for when we get married...” Insecurity, anxiety makes his voice tilt up unnecessarily at the end. Makes it sound like a question rather than a declarative statement.

Sehun doesn’t say anything for a long time just stares down at his drink even when he does speak. “This isn’t a fucking Lifetime movie, you know. Maybe we’ll just be miserable for the rest of our lives. And maybe that's the point. Compliance, right? Subjugation. Filial duty. Any fulfillment that we get is accidental. So I really don’t—I mean, what? You wanna go steady?" Sehun practically scoffs the last statement, looking up to meet Tao’s eyes.

But Tao ignores the snide remark, the bitterness lacing his tone, simply nods. “I’d rather be accidentally happy than miserable just by default.”

Sehun’s eyebrows smooth, his expression shutters off. “Well, if you think that would be wise, I’ll be sure to pencil it in your calendar, Mr. Huang.”

It ends on a sour note, but Tao calls it a date to himself, later than night, staring up at the ceiling to trace lazy patterns on stucco. Tao counts it a relative success. Decides a repeat is in order.

 

"What's it like being the younger son?" Tao asks him, a second "date" in, coaxing him to dinner that Friday, a repeat of samgyeopsal, only Tao indulges this time as well. "What's it like…" Being leftover.

"What it's like being your parents' only hope?" Sehun counters, expression souring. "Their one shot."

"Hard. Draining."

Sehun makes a lazy, noncommittal gesture, waves his hand, his tongs, and Tao thinks it's probably in agreement. Sehun probably understands. They’re both fucked—both in this situation—after all.

"Regardless, your life is too important for you to live all by yourself," Sehun laughs bitterly.

“That's not fair to them,” Tao sighs, shaking his head. The world spins briefly, and he rests a heavy palm on the table to right himself. "But it's also not—it's not fair to me."

Sehun blinks up at him. “You’re killing my buzz,” he says seriously. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”

They don’t. Find something else to complain about. The weather, the first lead in the latest MBC drama, the subway traffic on the way here.

 

❣ ❣ ❣

 

That next Monday, Tao consults Sehun, shuffles his schedule, and Sehun—their dates—replace tennis, racquetball, gay bars.

Tao doesn’t really miss the free time.

The weather worsens, they wear more clothes, order warmer drinks, bump shoulders as they shuffle through the city. Side by side, steps in sync.

 

And on their dates, Tao meets a different Sehun. Or a Sehun he’s never really allowed himself to see.

Because Sehun’s got a perpetual smirk, a handsome face, an insufferable disregard for any and all things for import, and the kind of connections that guarantee he’ll continue to have a job, frequent fuck ups be damned.

But this Sehun, the Sehun that is intoxicated, that is interested, that is impassioned, he’s the kind of Sehun that Tao can maybe almost picture someday needing. Or at the very least, tolerating for the rest of forever.

He’s louder, more obnoxious, more petulant, snarkier. But softer, too. Endearing. Charming. Familiar. Empathetic. Tao clings to that trait in particular. He teases away at the pain, the ugly, to the similar beneath all the disdain. The Sehun that understands him.

And there’s—as always—responsibility, perpetually teasing at Tao’s consciousness, reminding him of all the work he should be doing, all the goals to accomplish. But Sehun serves as a welcome distraction, a welcome reprieve.

They go to mini golf, noraebangs, eat street food near the subway, take a pottery class, shop for CDs and sweaters. And they “date,” drink, then cry, complain, confess, come to conclusion that there is no real way out. Lather, rinse, repeat.

 

At a fundraising fair, Sehun and his too-long arms win him a teddy bear, a lumpy crab as Tao grumbles into his cotton candy about how those games are rigged, how Sehun is just the kind of boy the bespectacled girl behind the counter wants to impress.

"You're shorter," Sehun notes absently, reaching out to brush at Tao's ear, rest his cocked arm on the top of Tao’s head.

Tao balks at that, reaches out to seize Sehun's wrist before Sehun can do something like muss his hair, pet his forehead.

“I’m taller, stronger, I’ll win you all prizes, yeobo.”

“You’re awful,” Tao decides, and Sehun laughs, loud, obnoxious, unbidden, and ugly. Real, though.

“And you’re ugly,” Sehun counters.

Tao sputters on a retort, words failing him as Sehun raises an eyebrow, smiles—smirks—with his eyes.

And Tao pinches his side, relishes in Sehun's bitten off gasp.

 

After a superhero film, they sit across from each other in a Japanese restaurant, chopsticks poised as they discuss, argue.

“He’s hot,” Sehun tells him. “Don’t you—you said you liked men. You really—don’t think?”

“Him. That’s what you find attractive?” Tao shakes his head. “He’s—his face looks like a box. You would honestly—? I can’t believe that’s—” He makes a dismissive gesture, puffs out his cheeks as he laughs. “I can’t—it’s offensive.”

Sehun scoffs, and Tao feels his own face twitch with disdain.

"You have the worst fucking taste," Tao decides. “You can’t be trusted on any matters."

Sehun prickles, squares his shoulders back. He grimaces, and Tao is endeared, laughs. He reaches up to push one side of his mouth up, and Sehun protests loudly, swats hard, calls him ugly again.

"That doesn’t even sting. I’ve seen what gets you hot, and frankly I’m not impressed."

It’s Sehun’s turn to sputter, Tao’s turn to flinch, but both their turns to laugh then.

 

A week later has them using 1+1 coupons at the batting cages, arguing, bickering, shoving, afterwards. Sehun laughs easily, unattractively, his entire face scrunching. Tao shoves at his shoulder, grumbles about how it wasn't a fair match, he couldn't really see the ball, the sun was in his eyes he wasn’t wearing a visor like Sehun. And Sehun narrows his eyes, pinches his brows, puckers his lips in a poor imitation of Tao's face. "I couldn't see the ball, Sehun," he mimics, tone needlessly high pitched and breathy, scrunching his nose. "I'm a bigshot CEO, and you're my secretary. I call the shots. My lies become truth.”

Tao swallows hard, suddenly solemn, stiffening and jerking back from Sehun’s playful smack, and Sehun's face twists with worry, laughter dying his throat, too.

His mouth opens, as if to apologize, and Tao interrupts him with a wave of his hand. “Let’s just—let’s go home.”

 

The sky is darkening as they linger outside Tao’s apartment, tension, insecurity, the unresolved circumstances of their friendship hanging heavily between them, as thick as the white exhalations from their trembling lips. Sehun’s teeth begin to chatter, and Tao invites him upstairs. There’s no ulterior motive in it, no calculation, though the thought briefly flickers across his mind as Sehun’s eyes widen at the suggestion.

They take the elevator up, and Sehun borrows a pair of indoor shoes as he steps inside. Tao puts a kettle to boil, and Sehun meets Lu Han, his guinea pig. He blinks at him, presses his face to the glass. “This is your—”

“Companion,” Tao provides, stepping beside him, bending forward, too, to unhinge the lock. He reaches inside, murmurs softly in warm greeting.

“Companion.” Sehun’s eyebrow quirks. He turns to look at Tao, and Tao ignores him, reaches around Sehun’s too-broad shoulders for Lu Han’s food. “That’s a person’s name.”

“He’s important enough for a person’s name.”

“You’re lonely,” Sehun says.

And there’s further tension, unresolved because Tao doesn’t answer, and the silence stretches for far too long. Far too long for a recovery on Tao’s part. He stares at Lu Han, lets the animal nuzzle against his outstretched fingers.

“Doesn’t—doesn’t that mean...deer? He’s not—”

“His eyes,” Tao insists, “they’re doe-like. And he’s—he’s majestic.”

“That’s not..the adjective I would use,” Sehun observes.

Tao sighs overloud, shocks Lu Han who starts to scramble away. Sehun presses beside Tao. He sticks his own hand in Lu Han’s cage, coos softly to sooth the animal as he runs slow, careful fingers over his spotted fur.

Lu Han is a good judge of character, and he squeals in excitement when Sehun drags his thumb lengthwise against his body with a marked tenderness.

 

And this Sehun—this special Sehun—bleeds over into work hours, too. Sehun’s coffee is better (It’s much too sweet, made from somebody trying to mask the flavor. Somebody that doesn’t drink coffee, doesn’t like the taste but is trying to imagine what somebody that likes coffee would like) and his handwriting neater and his smile wider. And Sehun is trying. Still not quite succeeding, but he's trying. Tao's heart turns over in his chest at that observation.

And Tao learned long ago to make the most of bad situations, justify and rationalize away even unfair circumstances. Learning has made him harder. But Sehun—Sehun starts to almost make something strange and beautiful thrum in his chest. Makes him feel soft and vulnerable in the most achingly, exquisitely painful way.

 

❣ ❣ ❣

 

The hours bleed into each other, tangle, overrun, and his worlds continue to collide, grinding against each other in the process. And it's terrifying, but Sehun—at this point—is a done deal, a guarantee. That helps in a way. Reassures. Sooths. Mollifies.

 

"We're gonna get married," Sehun notes softly one Saturday, lazing on Tao’s couch. And just a few weeks ago, Tao would have attributed his comment to tactlessness, but Tao knows now—rationalizes now— that Sehun is blunt because he doesn’t like to speak around the issue. He doesn’t see the point in delaying their pity parties, drunken commiseration.

Sehun balances an unopened bottle on the knob of his knee, as he drawls about how surreal this all is, and Tao appreciates it.

Dates have moved to include Tao’s house. Easily enough. Naturally almost. There’s no grandness or particular importance in the gesture, but Minseok’s eyebrows had raised when he’d heard, his smile had been obnoxiously knowing—wrong.

Sehun drapes his legs over one couch leg with the familarity of somebody that has gotten drunk here, fallen asleep here, gotten crinks in his neck here, complained about them over takeout in the morning here.

“It’s fucked up,” Tao agrees, loyal to script.

“But it’s also—oh man—it’s also amazing, that we can be so subject to other people’s whims. It’s so—it makes me want to punch something. Get fired. Get a tatoo. Fuck someone.”

Tao nods solemnly. “I can’t fire you. I’ve tried.”

"Well that's reassuring."

“You were—before?” Tao tries, and Sehun throws his head back, baring his neck.

“A lot. All the time. I’m ‘self-destructive.’ It’s the principle more than anything, you know. I have no choice, so I’m gonna fuck everything up while I can.”

“So you what—settle for externalizing your anger? Taking it out on people that didn’t do anything to deserve it just because you’re throwing a tantrum? Act without conscious, without consequence just because you’re angry?” Tao doesn’t realize he’s spoken—said it out loud—until Sehun laughs.

Tao squints in his direction, and Sehun is smiling. But it’s an ugly, empty stretch of lips, bitter, doesn’t reach his eyes. Doesn’t make them crinkle. It’s still distressingly beautiful, Tao realizes. Sehun’s distressing beautiful.

“Tell me how you really feel, Mr. Huang.”

Tao gapes.

“This is how I cope. I don’t have mountains of memos to drown myself in.”

 

Sehun stars to burn his coffee again. It’s childish, petulant, but it still stings. Tao apologizes, and Sehun accepts it with a jerky bob of his head, a tight-lipped smile.

 

❣ ❣ ❣

 

And there’s a crack. The tiniest fracture. Vulnerability beneath the thick, shiny veneer of cocksure nonchalance. “This isn’t what I wanted either,” Sehun tells him late late late one Friday, or early early early one Saturday. The hours are bleeding into each other as they sit across from each other at a 24-hour cafe, near Christmas time, still drunk but sobering up.

And no, Tao had noticed his eyes the challenge in them. Not fear, not apprehension, not disgust. They'd been goading.

"You—your eyes. They were telling me."

“You’re contrary,” Sehun murmurs, fingers reaching forward, absently tracing Tao’s jaw. Tao tries not to shiver at the touch, settles for thrumming, suffusing with goosebumps instead. “Contrary and delusional and now—fuck—fucking engaged to me.”

Tao tilts his chin down, doesn’t take the bait. But he regards him warily, nonetheless.

Sehun softens his prodding, emboldens his touches to skim over Tao’s chin, brush against Tao’s lips. Tao’s lips part, and Sehun finally retreats, eyes heavy and insistent, so very dark in the harsh light.

"You know, there's the—sex part," Sehun says slowly. "But there's also the sleeping beside each other every night part. The eating together and keeping up the house and raising goldfish or cats or dogs—Lu Han together part. That's not just chemistry or attraction. That's compatibility. That's companionship. And we're for life." There's an air of finality to his voice.

Tao nods slowly, still slightly dazed, off kilter.

"There's grocery shopping and paying bills and…" Sehun exhales shakily. "We're getting married."

Sehun looks up at him, eyes wide, brows creased.

"I'm not an only child, you know, but I've had my own room my whole life. And now it's—" he laughs. "You're my roommate. My—husband."

Tao thinks about the way Sehun fits into his apartment, looks in his chair, on his couch, leaning against his kitchen counter. Thinks about Sehun being married to him. Tao’s space becoming his own. Thinks about negotiated TV, shower, cooking schedule. He thinks about Sehun feeding Lu Han. About Sehun’s wardrobe bleeding into Tao’s own. He thinks about brushing their teeth side by side.

His head feels light, his heart heavy.

“Do you want to—I mean, we can keep our own places, right?” And Tao’s voice comes out in a pitchy sigh.

“I guess, I guess we could, yeah—”

“I mean it isn’t—isn’t real.”

It’s safer, more hollow, truer to form. Doesn’t put overmuch on the good thing they have right now.

“You’re right,” Sehun intones, nodding fiercely. “I don't—we don't count.”

 

“Do you want a wedding?” Sehun asks gently, hesitantly, a Saturday, tone delicate, words tightly measured. It’s the most hesitant, and paradoxically the most honest and forthright he’s ever heard Sehun be. There’s no undercurrent of disdain, no wall of indifference.

They’re a good six weeks into this engagement. On pause. Vague plans in the future, still. Many undecideds still looming in the great beyond as they figure this out. (Tao’s mother is cautiously optimistic, allows it because the progress has been organic, and the promise they made binding)

And Tao doesn’t dwell on Sehun’s uncharacteristic softness. Tries not to, really. He merely blinks in response. “Does it matter?”

“It matters—mattered to you. So it matters to me.”

Tao shakes his head, hunches his shoulders. “Not really.”

“I mean, that's not exactly…we're not—"

"Traditional," Tao offers, and Sehun’s head bobs, lips stretch in agreement.

“It can be Western style, right?” Tao notes softly. “It can be just signing the right documents. No hanboks, no ... don't—it doesn’t have to be formal or traditional at all. We can just admit that we’re not actually, you know, in on this.”

“But still, Huang Zitao, the romantic not wanting a wedding? It’s—kinda like finding out your barista hates coffee.”

“It’s not—not that I don’t believe.” And Tao does. He’s just not looking. Not wanting. Not yet. “I had, you know, I had this image in my head of what it’d be like when I was ready. And it’s not now. And it’s not—not with...Not a—”

“Contract marriage?” Sehun finishes easily. “But it is. That’s what we have, right? That’s what we are.” Tao doesn’t miss the shift in his posture, his tone. “Come on now, Mr. Huang. Do you really want out so badly?”

It's a joke, but there's something there, Tao imagines, wants.

“Okay,” Sehun says, finally, after the silence has stretched on and on and on, smiling broadly, falsely. “We’ll call them and break their hearts.”

 

 

Sehun falls beside him on the couch, holds his hand as he makes the call to his, Sehun’s parents. It’s something that Joonmyun would have done, Tao reflects, squeezing back. This small comfort that his fiancé is offering.

They schedule a lunch date on Saturday. Meet at a café.

And Tao’s seen them before, brief, passing bows at Christmas and birthday parties, cursory glances at business meetings. But he’s never taken the time to really examine their faces. Sehun's mother is beautiful, his father handsome. Tao can pick out Sehun’s jawline, the arch of his brow, the curve of his cheek.

Tao turns to see Sehun examining Tao’s own parents. Seeing his eyes in his father’s eyes, probably. The pout of his mouth in Tao’s mother’s face.

They exchange pleasantries. Talk about Christmas plans. The weather. And Sehun's hand is warm and solid in his, gripping tight to remind him of his presence. Their plan in this.

“We—we want to—no wedding,” Tao blurts out as they discuss vacation homes, the best beaches.

And Sehun is squeezing his knee, underneath the table. Tao's hand falls over his, fingers threading through Sehun's own, holding him there. Sehun's hand turns over, palm up, and Tao squeezes it hard. Sehun presses closer against him, dances in his periphery.

Sehun’s mother blinks. Eyebrows raising in a disconcertingly familiar way. “Still marriage,” Sehun interrupts. “Still—;still follow through, but just us two. Just without all the pomp and circumstance.”

 

The cab ride home afterwards is exhilaration, and Sehun’s leg bounces up and down as he sits beside Tao, leaning heavily again. He doesn’t have the excuse of intoxication now, completely sober, but he still rests his forehead on Tao’s shoulders as he talks about how that was the first time they’ve ever taken a request of his seriously. The first time he’s felt validated, and it’s so amazing. So perfect. Does Tao even understand?

Sehun follows him into his apartment. Still exclaiming. Still exuding.

“What did you used to do before I came along?” he asks, standing up on his tiptopes, arching his spine. He scrapes his fingers across the ceiling, stretching. His shirt rides up to expose the lean, pale line of his stomach as he hums, thrums. “I have so much energy right now, Tao. It’s the giving my parents the ‘fuck you’ high. I want to get drunk. Kick something. _Fuck_. I want to indulge in self destruction. What did you do? When you were so inclined?”

“I used to go to gay bars. By myself. Just to—.”

“Hook up? That’s fucking perfect,” Sehun decides loudly. “We can celebrate the fact that this isn’t real. Take me to the places you used to go when you wanted to escape the awfulness of this all.”

Sehun crowds beside him in Tao’s bathroom after squeezing himself into a pair of Tao’s jeans. He smears on eyeliner, tousles his hair, smirks at his own reflection, and Tao swallows thickly as he watches him. Sehun bites his lip, tugs at the hem of his own t-shirt. Tight, too, adhered to the sleek definition of his body.

Tao is in over his head. But Sehun’s eyes are challenging him again, and Tao rises to the bait.

 

They touch thighs in the subway train on the ride there.

“We’re open, right?” Sehun asks, delicate, deferential, _clarifying_. "If it's not real, I'd rather not pretend. I’d rather not...close off other options.”

“Open,” Tao agrees after a beat.

“Perfect. I’ll be your wingman. Help you land the hottest guy there.”

 

Alcohol smooths some of the awkwardness, makes Sehun more lithe, liquid, _dangerous_. Tao matches him shot for shot. And Tao’s head is pounding, mixes with the punch of bass to make his mind fuzzy, his fingers clumsy, searching, bold as they glide along a stranger’s forearms. He’s hot, smells like cologne, and cigarettes, and Tao tilts his head down to nose at his neck, mouth along his jawline. The man hums out a moan, and Tao grinds forward even harder. For a filthier, louder repeat. But there’s a hand tugging insistently at his shirt color, slurring out a “Come on.”

“He’s not good enough,” Sehun is arguing, dragging him forward, arms drapped over Tao’s shoulders. “You can do much, much better. I know I have shitty taste in men, but I can promise you, Tao. He’s not—he’s not up to par.”

But the only alternative Sehun offers is himself. Sinful, smooth in his skintight jeans, fabric hugging his form, emphasizing long, lean lines, lithe muscles as he moves. Sehun presses his forehead to Tao’s then shifts to nose along his jawline, the column of his neck, and Tao’s breath hitches in his throat.

“I’m sweaty,” he grumbles.

“My darling Tao, I love you all the same,” Sehun teases.

Tao cringes. “Don’t joke like that,” he murmurs. And Sehun’s eyes shutter off, hard in the dancing strobe lights.

Sehun leans forward to regard him carefully. Even in intoxication. And Tao thinks he’s going to tease him about his smeared eyeliner, his sweaty, sloppy hair, but Sehun hesitates, deliberates. Then plants a kiss on Tao’s lips. Hard, fast, Tao's mouth opens from the force of it. Sehun pulls back, smiles. "There," he says, smacking his lips, grinning.

Tao reaches up to touch his mouth, lips parted in quiet disbelief.

And before Tao has a chance to comment, Sehun is pressing forward again, slotting a thigh between Tao’s, threading his fingers through Tao’s hair, his lips dragging against Tao’s own, breath puffing sweet and whisky-flavored into Tao’s open mouth. Tao’s fingers tangle in Sehun’s shirt, twisting the fabric as his eyelashes flutter in uncertainty, intoxication, arousal.

“You want me, Tao?” Sehun slurs.

Sehun kisses like he has a right to. Cocky, self-assured. Like he expects Tao to want to kiss him back. He _does_ —in his drunkenness, he can admit that, wants to kiss him, wants to _fuck_ him, too. Tao parts his lips readily enough, groans as Sehun's tongue brushes his lips. Sehun’s mouth is hot, his tongue dirty, and the thigh he has pressed between is doing the most painful, dirty, dirty things to his body.

He pulls away, panting against Tao’s face, and Tao chases his lips, chases the warm pressure, warm friction of Sehun’s body.

“I’m the hottest boy at the bar,” Sehun trills, words skating over Tao’s overheated skin. “I’m your safest bet, yeobo. Do you _want_ me?”

Tao jerks back, jerks away. Sehun’s hand is still on his shoulder, but Tao brushes it off as he rushes out of the club, bumping into a bouncer, slumping agianst a cool, brick wall, breathing hard.

He knows that Sehun is following him. Not far behind.

"It's a fucking game for you," he accuses, meeting Sehun’s eyes. Tone more hurt than icy. "Everything is a fucking game for you. Nothing—nothing is sacred. Nothing is off limits.”

And it’s Tao’s biggest weakness, his biggest tell. The emotion is flooding out, coloring his features before he has a chance to school his expression, making his voice waver. And Sehun is hardly as expressive, but Tao registers faint surprise at the peek of it. But Sehun doesn’t relent.

“What the fuck do you want me to do?” Sehun counters. _Actually_ icy. “What, Tao?" He scoffs. "Fall in love with you? Be your redeemable other half? Take all of this forced affection, these forced circumstances in stride?! I’m fucking _coping_. I'm fucking _adjusting_.”

“By making fun of me? By—by worming your way inside? That’s—that’s how you fucking cope? Inviting yourself into my house and Lu Han and—throwing tantrums at work?”

Sehun raises his chin in indignation, and Tao thinks he's kind of beautiful. In a dangerous, angry sort of way. That’s the problem. “You don't let people fuck up, do you? Fucking _Christ_ , Tao. You don't let people hurt or get angry or feel things? _Want_. It's always about you, Tao. About what you want. It’s not my fucking fault, Tao. It’s _not_. You said yes first.”

“I didn't—" Tao sputters, screams. "I didn't—you were fucking challenging me to do this, Sehun. Why did you even—?” Tao laughs. Hysterical. Ringing. Overloud. Bitter.

“Why did _you_?”

“You—your fucking eyes, Sehun. Don’t pretend you didn’t. Don’t pretend you weren’t.”

Sehun laughs. “I—because I wanted to—because you—”

“What—you wanted to fuck me over more? You wanted to fucking ruin my life?”

"I'm leaving," Sehun says softly. “Fuck you.”

 

Sehun calls into work. (He has a week of paid emergency leave, and Tao files the paperwork on his behalf when Sehun says he can’t, _Mr. Huang_.)

Tao misses his medicore— _improving_ —coffee, his lazy smile, his lazier drawl.

He types, deletes, retypes apology emails. Shuffles listlessly through the week. Relents and calls to apologize. Sehun accepts an apology, agrees to meet him at a restaurant by his house.

 

“It isn’t fair to you,” Tao starts, palms raising. “I just—I was frustrated. I was just mad because it isn’t fair to me either.”

“I know, but stop saying that,” Sehun cuts in. “Stop, I’m tired of it, Tao.”

Tao blinks, swallows, tightens his fist around his cup.

“It’s like—you think you’re the only rich boy with daddy issues,” Sehun hisses.

Tao swallows even harder. Anger pricking in his vision, annoyance skittering through his veins. It quickens his breath, as he inhales sharply through his nostrils, bites hard on the inside of his cheek to let Sehun finish.

“You’re so fucking passive. You just keep _complaining_ about this. You won't fucking shut up about how much this sucks for you, but you're still not _doing_ anything.”

“This is my _life_ , Sehun. They're messing with my life”

“Mine, too. _Ours_ , too.”

“You want me to be _happy_ about this?”

“I want you to not be fucking selfish about it. To think about what this means for me, too.”

“That you’re being forced into a marriage with somebody you hate, too.”

“Somebody that hates me,” Sehun breathes in quiet correction and clarification. “I don’t hate you.” Tao blinks up at him. "I'm— accepting this and you're making it so hard for me. I wasn’t making fun of you that night. I wasn’t. I was—do you even _want_ me, Tao? Am I really so not what you could ever want?”

“It doesn’t _matter_ , Sehun. It isn’t—it doesn’t change the fact that this isn’t what I wanted.”

“Trying, it can be okay. It doesn’t mean this was your first choice but thats the...mature choice. It just—I’m already. Why can’t you?”

"But it's not fair," Tao decides. "Becoming complacent, changing your attitude, just _accepting_ the circumstances because they won't change. Pretending everything is okay. That isn't _right_ , Sehun."

"But that's—that's what _you've_ done, isn't it? And we don't—I don't want to be angry anymore. I don't want—"

"I'm sorry but I'm not about to— I can’t just accept something like this to make you feel better about yourself, Sehun. I can't. I _won’t_."

"Fuck you, Tao. You’re—you’re the one that said that you’d rather be happy by accident than miserable my choice, by inaction. You’re the one that said, Tao. And now I’m trying and you’re just—you’re _choosing_ this.”

“I have a right to choose, Sehun. Just because you decided that you wanted this doesn’t mean you can force this on me.”

“I just—I want to _try_. I want to—I’ve never really _tried_.”

“This isn’t some experiment, Sehun. This isn’t—I’ve got—I’m _done_. I’m done forcing myself.”

“Am I really so bad?” he says finally, looking up from where he’s been twisting his napkin in his lap over and over and over again. “You’re not, you know. I thought, I thought you were. I wanted to...crack you. I wanted you to snap. I wanted you broken. But now I—I want to put you back together. You’re not that bad. You’re not bad at all. I _want_ you, you know. And I want you to want me back. You can’t just not—not give us a shot.”

Tao doesn’t know what to make of unlatent affection, approval. “Yes, I can.”

Sehun hiccups, looks up at him. His eyes are raw.

And Sehun isn't interested in hiding it any longer. The rawness, the pain. Tao flinches at the vulnerability he finds in Sehun's eyes. Unmasked, unguarded, unbidden, Tao lets out an involuntary noise.

Sehun cringes, drops his gaze.

“Is that really so bad?” he whispers. “Being the cliché, making the best of this? Am I really so—”

“This isnt’ about you.” Tao’s voice is softer. He cradles Sehun’s wrist, rubs his thumb across the sharp jut.

“Isn’t it? I’m—It’s so disheartening, Tao. But here I am. And I’m _trying_. And it’s scary. I’m scared I won’t be good enough still, but I’m _trying_. Because this is worth it. I think we deserve that. For our own happiness. And I can’t—this right now—”

“That’s not it. You know that’s not it,” he says, finally. _You’re being emotionally manipulative. You’re trying to force me into siding with you because it’s easier_. But Tao swallows the lump in his throat, chokes on his own retort.

“Do I?”

“If not, you really fucking should, Sehun.”

The silence—the awful imposing silence—is interrupted only by a sudden, wet inhalation. Tao’s gaze jerks up, and Sehun is _crying_. Like a child, into his fist, shoulders shaking.

"Sehun," he starts to say. Stops when he meets Sehun’s red eyes.

Sehun’s tone is tired, and there's a worry and hurt creased between his eyebrows, resignation in the line of his mouth. "I'm done," he repeats softly. "I can't do this. I’m leaving."

“It’s the principle,” he insists, rising.

“Don’t you get that it doesn’t matter? Whether it’s the principle or me being a disappointment? It’s the same result. I’m alone. Don’t you _get_ it?”

“It’s the—”

“Who gives a _fuck_? How do you feel about me, Tao? When you subtract our parents, the fact that this was forced upon me? How do you feel?”

And something, something gives.

 

Tao takes him home. Bypasses the usual greeting Tao insists Lu Han needs (he gets scared of strangers), drags Sehun into the bedroom. Sehun tangles his hands in Tao’s hair, tugs him forward into a messy, needy kiss. Tao falls forward into the warm cradle of his body, grinds down in a slow, dirty rhythm as he licks his way into Sehun’s mouth.

And Tao decides he could spend hours memorizing the contours of Sehun’s mouth, the curves of his body. _Wants_ to, but Sehun is bucking upwards, clothed erection brushing against Tao’s thigh.

“I want to touch you all over,” Tao groans. He shifts his focus to Sehun’s neck, sucks on the hollow of his throat, licks over a mole he finds there until Sehun is bucking upwards, gasping in the most breathy, beautiful way.

“ _Yes_ ,” Sehun breathes.

Tao kisses his way down Sehun’s body, pausing to tug fabric. He licks over pebbled nipples, noses over, mouths over a jumping navel.

“I want you,” Tao breathes in quiet want, quiet affirmation. Tao nuzzles against the distinct bulge of his erection, and Sehun moans out another “Yes.”

"Have you ever?" he asks, and Sehun laughs breathlessly, manages to choke out another soft, soft moan.

"I don't want to—tonight.

"Saving it for the wedding, huh?" Tao jokes, and Sehun looks away, above him, as he swallows. The light catches his eyes, make them seem overbright.

Tao glides up to nuzzle at Sehun’s cheek until Sehun turns—mouth parted—to kiss him. "Okay," he says. "Can I still—blow you?"

Sehun’s breath hitches, but he nods. And Tao slides down his body anew, tugging off his pants.

Tao’s kisses, tongue are hot and damp against the straining fabric of Sehun’s boxers. He can feel Sehun’s cock twitch through the confines, feel it pulse as he licks more obscenely, and Sehun writhes forward into the bare, fleeting friction. Then he’s tugging those down, too. Pressing warm kitten licks to the very tip, swirling his tongue along the flushed red crown.

Sehun jerks forward weakly with a filthy moan. And he’s sitting up, leaning on his elbows to watch as Tao gets to work.

Tao uses Sehun’s reactions as a gauge. Paints his lips with the moisture collecting on the tip before engulfing the length completely. He swallows down to the base, blinking up at him through teary eyelashes moaning low and dirty around the hot, choking girth. Lips suctioned tight around Sehun’s cock, arms braced on his toned thighs, Tao can feel every helpless little twitch, feel the tension building up and and up and up as he goes faster and faster. Bobs up and down.

Sehun’s thighs tremble, face puckers, mouth opens when he comes, and Tao swallows it down greedily, sure to lick his lips and hum afterwards in a way that has Sehun groaning, pulling him forward into a dirty kiss.

“Want me to—?” he offers, lazily. And Tao slows down their kisses, deepens it as he peels off his pants, boxers, grinds against Sehun’s bare thighs. Sehun shifts, presses them tight together, lifts his hips for Tao to fit his cock in between. And Tao groans into his mouth as he fucks into the tight fit, rhythm fast, hard, sloppy as he trembles out his own orgasm.

 

(They discuss it afterwards. Naked, curled into each other. Expectations. Desires. _Them_. How they could work on their own terms. Towards their own needs. Independent of the marriage they’ve arranged amongst themselves. They come to clumsy, haphazard agreements that have Sehun falling asleep in Tao’s arms, nuzzling into his tight embrace)

 

A wedding date—a civic court date—still isn’t set by the time Sehun comes to Tao’s house for the explicit purpose of fucking, but it’s Christmas. And Tao had made a point of kissing Sehun too long underneath the mistletoe at the company party. And Sehun stumbles into his apartment, fingers tangling in Tao’s wool sweater.

Tao peels it off. His pants, underwear, undershirt, too. Staggers toward his own bedroom with an armful of a very eager, very hot, very perfect Oh Sehun.

He’d been insisting on the cab ride here that tonight was the night. Falling into Tao’s lap to mouth at his jawline, whisper about how Tao’s fingers, tongue were nice, but Sehun had _need_ s. Needs that involved Tao’s cock inside of him.

And Sehun wastes no time either. Nude, he leans back, splays himself open, all lithe muscles, smooth skin, long lines, his—Tao’s—for the taking.

“You’re beautiful,” Tao groans, curses reverently, swallows thickly, and Sehun blushes, clenches his eyes shut.

“Your cock,” he reminds him delicately.

But first it’s Tao’s fingers—slicked up, one by one—working Sehun open with a practiced ease, crooking inside as Sehun bites back sobs, fucks back with tiny jerk motions of his hips. Three fingers in has Sehun tangling a hand in his own hair, another in the sheets, whispering “Right there, right there” over and over again before pitching sharply rasping out a “Tao, I’m gonna—give me—not yet.”

Tao retreats the slightest, contingues to thrust his fingers in and out as Sehun whimpers. “Tao, I’m gonna need you,” Sehun gasps, pitches, writhes, “to pay attention—ah—listen closely because I’m— _fuck_ , babe—not gonna say this again.”

Tao groans, nods drunkenly, consents easily enough when Sehun cradles his face, drags him up so they’re face to face, chest to chest. Tao still has his fingers inside of him.

“You have become a part of me,” Sehun insists breathlessly, and Tao shudders at the confession, skin prickling with goosebumps. He continues to kiss Sehun, tilting his head to press his tongue even deeper, groaning as he tastes, probes, tangles. “So _become_ a part of me.”

“ _Fuck_.”

“I was—ah—saving that for when I fell in love with you, but I figured I’d get blue balls before then.”

“That’s so hot,” he rasps, and his heart is in his throat.

“If you think—this will be even— _better_.” Tao scissors his fingers open, and Sehun’s entire body arches off the bed, spine bending in the most delicate bow.

“I’ve touched myself to this—like this, but sometimes, sometimes—to the thought of you riding my cock.”

Tao curses. “We can, we can try that.” He shifts to suck on Sehun’s collarbone. “You’re so perfect—I’m, I’m glad our parents—”

“Please don’t. Not when you’re about to put your cock in me.”

“I’m glad,” Tao amends, curling upwards. Sehun's long, lean thighs are encasing him, wrapping tight, urging him closer. Tao groans as he collapses forward, drags hot and heavy and fucking _aching_ across Sehun’s warm, soft skin. “I’m glad that we met. I’m glad you’re in my life.”

Tao shifts and then he’s pressing inside to the impossible, drugging pleasure of slicked, clenching heat. Tao fucks forward with slow push that has him bottoming out with a low moan that Sehun matches.

And them there's only the excruciating, exhilarating tightness, the quiet hum of Sehun's breathy moans, the filthy, demanding bucks of his hips. There's only pleasure, heat, want. There’s only dark, liquid eyes glazing over as Tao thrusts just _right_ , pounding new memories as he pounds into his warm, receptive, writhing body.

Sehun's mouth is sloppy, desperate, lips parting on more moans, than for actual kisses.

But it's so good. So fucking good. And Sehun—Sehun’s reacting in the most distressingly, disconcertingly perfect way.

And it feels like a reward in itself, watching Sehun's face scrunch with pleasure, his voice bleed with emotion and desire. It lends an extra pulse of desire into his own movements. It has him pressing further forward, fucking in earnest, seeking affirmation in the form of more broken, breathy moans of Tao's name. His slick, puffed lips parted, jaw slack on a dirty, moan. Tao groans at the sight.

Sehun’s hip cant upwards, writhing as he silently begs for more, and Tao delivers, reaches to lift one lean leg higher, up towards his sweaty shoulders. Until he’s pressing even deeper and Sehun is releasing a sobbing moan with every plunge of Tao’s cock.

He reaches down with clumsy figures to tug at his own cock, and Tao pitches forward to watch him touch himself. Watch the way his body jerks from overstimulation, the dual pleasure of his own hand, Tao inside of him.

“You’re so beautiful,” Tao moans. “ _Fuck_ , Sehun.”

Sehun clenches impossibly tight when he comes. A choke hold that has Tao stutterfucking mindlessly, rhythm lost, pure need. The pleasure cascades down his spine, crests as he watches Sehun’s face pinch with pleasure. And Tao grinds out his own orgasm, pulsing inside of Sehun, collapsing forward. He nuzzles into Sehun’s sweaty neck to lick over the mole on his neck, ground himself as he shakes with the aftershocks of it. Laughs as he presses butterfly kisses to his jawline.

And the tension leaves Sehun’s body in waves until he's pliant, practically boneless, limp and sated and sweaty and beautiful. Tao combs softly through his hair, and Tao calls him beautiful again. Doesn’t even mind the self-satisfied smirk that Sehun shoots in his direction as a result.

And they can work, Tao thinks, dragging Sehun forward to press another whimsical kiss on his collarbone, his chin. Exactly like this.


End file.
